


sandcastles and clay birds

by pepsiicola



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (?), Deity Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Dream is a god, Fluff, Gen, i honestly dont know how to tag this uh, so is philza but not anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 08:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30086133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepsiicola/pseuds/pepsiicola
Summary: gods don't know mortal emotions, nor mortal travails. gods don't know a lot of things and neither does dream, but he thinks he's learning.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	sandcastles and clay birds

**Author's Note:**

> hi this is my first time actually writing (+ posting) fic for the dsmp so im kinda nervous hehe!! i started writing another fic (that's a bit of a prequel to this) so keep your eye out for that!!

There’s a sense of disbelief that comes with the disappearance of a man so powerful, his very name strikes fear into the hearts of the people who once called him “friend”. Expectations of darkened shadows slipping through the cracks in doors and watchful eyes are let down, and they find themselves needing to learn how to exist freely again. 

Despite this, there’s a lonesome feeling brought upon by the absence of him. Dream is gone, yet the people who once feared him find themselves missing his careful steps and the small reminders of him. There are no footprints in the grass between houses, no lonesome figure sitting stagnant within the Church of Prime, silent prayers hidden in the still dawns. There are no more sandcastles left on the beach, all of them having been washed away with the tides. There are no signs of Dream anymore, save for a simplistic headstone with his name carved into it. 

Dream is not dead, however. Dream has never been dead and never will be, as long as he continues to fulfill the purpose his creators gave him. He no longer watches over the people who forsook him, who abandoned and shunned him because of the fear they rightfully felt. Dream is not dead because Dream cannot die, because to die one must be alive and how must he live if he cannot die? He simply exists, just like the others who watch from the sky, created of long-gone stars and dirt from dead planets and chalk blessed by their elders; Dream cannot die because Dream was not born. 

He is content with himself, though. He’s content with the small cottage by the beach that’s reminiscent of the one he lived in as a child, tentatively exploring the world around him. It may be simple and it may be small, but it is enough for him.

There are embers in the hearth, remnants of a fire that burned and burned and burned until it died, wood turned to ash and ash turned to something helpful, something that can grow. He muses on these contradictions of the world, the fires that destroy and die but can create and build something so beautiful even so. 

Dream wonders if he is a fire. 

He builds sandcastles like the ones in his youth, this time without those warm, guiding hands to perfect his simple ministrations. He misses the father who he once had, the loving one that cared for him and his brother. Oh, his brother. He wondered how the boy was doing without him. Happier, probably. Definitely happier.

In silent moments on that beach, Dream pretends he’s young again, the body of a child made from the gods’ holy hands staring out into the endless sea he fell into, hand in hand with the mortals who cared for him. He wishes he could be that child again, blind to the shortcomings of the mortals and innocent to the horrors of the world. He wishes he had never gotten too close to the edge, wishes he had known better to not be tempted by the autumn forests he once adored.

On lonely days he sits in a clearing in the woods behind his house, staring up into the sun. He prays to the gods, the people who created him to their design and wished him success. He prays to them, asking them for guidance, asking them to take him back, to lift him into the sky. They never answer his prayers, as gods don’t. They heed not the words of mere men, instead relying on their divine instinct. 

He misses it, the familiarity of the sky. The constellations beneath his feet, the clouds he slept on, the big bright sun he sat upon when the elders told him stories of his birth. He misses the young gods who laughed and chased him across the sky, leaping over thunderstorms and hurricanes as they played with him. He misses the way they would lead him to the edge, winking and telling him not to get so close to it. He misses being called Clay, the name now whispered only by those who pursued the holy texts. 

He hasn’t been Clay in a long time. 

Some days he walks into the sea, just to feel something. He sits at the bottom and watches as schools of fish pass by in a perfect formation. He studies coral and gathers seaweed to bring home with him and some days he lies at the bottom and pretends that the water within his falsified lungs could kill him. 

Some days he gets a visit from the old god, the one whose gifts he stole when he was created and the one who his elders never told him of. Philza sits in his living room, wings tucked beneath his robes as he looks upon Dream without scorn or resentment. Philza tells him of the old days, his time with the other gods, and how it became so much he couldn’t handle it anymore and lept off the edge of the sky, falling freely to the sea. Dream likes to think he would have been able to sympathize if he hadn’t been pushed, but cannot be certain, for he had not lived with the others as long as Philza did. Philza tells him of the people he met and the souls he reaped and the feeling of his powers leaving his body, leaving him frail and mortal and alone. Dream apologizes, but Philza refuses, face hard as he reminds him that he didn’t ask to be created. 

The two gods of death sit side by side on the beach sometimes, surrounded by lonely sandcastles and piles of seashells. Sometimes Dream tells him of the ocean creatures he’s grown fond of and the garden he keeps just to do something with his hands and Philza smiles, telling him he is proud of him and calls him Clay. 

Clay hasn’t known his name for a long time. 

There are days that pass when he is completely, utterly alone and all he wants to do is scream into the sky and the sea and beg for the death he will never get. There are days that pass when he is perfectly fine, when the loneliness is welcome and the sound of his own voice is foreign to him. There are days that pass when the sky opens up and pours freezing rain onto him as he lays on his porch, relaxed, mapping out the stars behind the storm clouds. 

There are days where Clay feels uncertain, where he misses the people he once loved and the people who raised him, but resigns himself to his cottage, staring into the hearth with a hurting heart. 

Then there are the days where he sits content with himself, the days where his strawberries have finished growing and he eats them upon the beach, building sandcastles by himself. Despite not being able to feel mortal emotion, he thinks he can be happy like this. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading :) i hope you enjoyed!!


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